Nightrider's Game
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: Michael Knight steps into his destiny and becomes the phoenix once again. KR/HL xover. And no, that's not a typo in the title.
1. Flashpoint

AN: _Knight Rider_ and all related characters are property of Glen Larson and Universal. I'm just borrowing them for a while. _Highlander_ (tv series) is property of Rysher/Davis-Panzer, and I'm just borrowing it, too.

AN2: In the rules of fairy, or unorthodox, chess, a 'rider' is a piece that can move an unlimited distance in one direction, providing there are no pieces in the way (wikipedia). The 'nightrider' is one of the most popular pieces in fairy chess.

* * *

_My life closed twice before its close-_

_It yet remains to see_

_If Immortality unveil_

_A third event to me. _

_So huge, so hopeless to conceive _

_As these that twice befell. _

_Parting is all we know of heaven, _

_And all we need of hell. _

_--Emily Dickinson_

It wasn't supposed to end like this, Michael thought, as the gun wavered in the man's hand before him. Not again, anyway...

He held out a hand. "Give me the gun. You don't want to do this."

The gunman backed up a step, eyebrow twitching. His tongue darted nervously between his dry lips. "I can't go back to prison, man."

Michael kept his eyes level, resisting the urge to glance at the business end of the weapon aimed directly at his chest. "I know. But if you do this, there's no turning back. Now give it to me, nice and slow."

The gun wavered again. "I--"

Michael lunged a split second before the gun went off. The bullet ripped through his lungs, nicked his aorta, and exited out of the top of his spinal column. With a soft "Uhh," he crumpled to the asphalt, feeling a surge of warmth rise into his throat and out his mouth and nose.

Through the ringing in his ears, Michael heard a clatter of metal against blacktop. "Oh, God," the gunman whimpered. "I'm sorry, man, I'm so sorry..." The whimper trailed off, only to be replaced by a scuffle of worn sneakers as the gunman took off running.

_He won't get far_, blurred the thought against Michael's brain, as his life continued to drain away.

The last thing he saw was KITT's hubcap as the Trans Am screeched to a stop beside him.

_"Michael! Michaelllll...Miiiiiichaelllll..."_

_KITT, I'm sorry..._


	2. Awakening

AN: Knight Rider and all related characters are property of Glen Larson and Universal. I'm just borrowing them for a while. Highlander (tv series) is property of Rysher/Davis-Panzer, and I'm just borrowing it, too.

* * *

_Who wants to live forever?_

_--Queen_

Cold.

He was freezing cold.

Something stirred in his chest; something fluttered once, then twice, then--

He gasped, and his eyes flew open. There was heavy vinyl over his face, and he clawed frantically at the covering before his fingers found something familiar: A zipper. He tugged on the vinyl, and to his relief the zipper parted. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath as the cold air bit into his flesh.

He tried to sit up, but knocked his head against something hard. He tried to raise his hands over his head, but found that the sides of his prison were too tight.

That was the moment he discovered where he was: A morgue. He had been lying in a cold storage drawer like a side of beef.

_Have to get out,_ he thought, his head spinning. He grabbed his left wrist, but wasn't surprised to find the comlink missing. _Dead men don't need comlinks._ A scene flashed through his mind of a uniformed policeman handing Devon a bag of personal effects: Leather jacket, comlink, wallet, black cowboy boots.

_Devon...Bonnie...KITT..._He repeated their names over and over as he banged against the walls of his prison. _Have to get out, have to get back to them! Devon, Bonnie, KITT! Help me, help me--_He felt a moment of vertigo as he slid backward. He raised his hands to his face, shielding his eyes from the blinding light. "What--"

A bundle of fabric hit him in his unblemished chest. "Here," came a whispered voice, so low that he couldn't tell if it was male or female. "Put these on. _Hurry!"_

He did as he was told, noting that the clothes actually resembled his own. The jeans were long enough, which was uncanny in itself, and the black t-shirt was nondescript and serviceable. The boots _were_ his, and he pulled them on as fast as he could.

"Come on." The hand that grabbed his wrist was most definitely female, well-worn but strong, with neatly trimmed nails. Michael toppled to the floor, feeling as weak as a newborn foal. He reached a hand up to the woman's scrub-clad shoulder.

"Hold up a minute," he gasped, trying to get his legs under him. "Just...hold up. I'm trying to--"

The woman--a nurse, by her uniform and the 'R.N.' he was able to glimpse on her badge--whirled around to fix him with a hazel stare. "We don't have a minute," she snapped. "You've got to get out of here." She pointed to a door at the end of the hallway, then pushed a bag into his hands. "Here. Now _go!_"

Tripping over his own feet, he ran for the door and hit it at full speed. He skidded to a stop in an empty parking lot next to a dumpster. Traffic flowed just beyond the corner of the building, cars stopping and starting along the road as people on foot and bicycle traversed the sidewalk.

He rummaged through the bag and found his wallet with his driver's license, his FLAG ID, and credit cards all intact, including the 22 in change he'd been carrying after paying his ticket at Denny's earlier that morning. The comlink was also in the bag; he strapped it on, but hesitated with his fingers hovering above the 'transmit' button.

_KITT thinks I'm dead_, he thought. _Everyone thinks I'm dead. I woke up in the _morgue,_ for crying out loud!__  
_  
Maybe it had all been a terrible mistake. Maybe he'd coded, or passed out, or someone had made a clerical error...

No. The bullet had been real. The blood had been real. He'd felt life and light and memory slip away, taking with it the sight of KITT's protective form. There _had_ to be more, there just _had_ to--

Something metallic rang in his ears, sending shivers down his spine and raising the hair on the back of his neck. He whirled to find a young red-headed man in a long denim duster walking toward him. The other was staring at him with eyes the color of icy peridots, and as Michael gaped, the young man brought an elegant black-handled katana out from under the duster.

"Who are you?" called the man, still advancing. "You must tell me your name."

"I'm...I'm Michael Knight." He spread his hands. "Listen, I need your help."

"I'm Brun Kovalski." The young man swung the katana gracefully, and Michael could hear it slicing the air. "Prepare yourself, Michael Knight."

"I don't even _know_ you, man," Michael stammered. "Look, can't we just--"

The katana lashed out like a silver ribbon of death, but Michael dodged at just the right moment to avoid the sword's razor sharp tip. "Hey! Cut it out! I'm just trying to ask a question!"

There was a screech of tires, and suddenly KITT was between them. "_Back off_," said the AI darkly, and it was Brun's turn to gape at the car with the blacked-out windows.

It seemed to Michael that they all stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, KITT revved his engine in a not-so-veiled threat. "I said, _back off_." He popped the driver's side door. "Michael, get in."

Brun pointed his sword at Michael. "I'll have your head another time, Knight," he called, then put away the sword and disappeared around the corner.

Michael waited until he was gone, then pulled open the door and slipped into the seat. "Thanks, buddy," he murmured, shutting the door behind him. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the seat, gripping the steering yoke tightly in his hands. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Who are you?"

Michael opened his eyes. "What? What do you mean, 'Who are you?' I'm Michael Knight, I'm your partner, remember?"

"That is what my sensors tell me," said KITT. "They must be malfunctioning." There was a long pause before the AI added softly, "Michael Knight is dead."

"No," Michael murmured, running his fingers along the dashboard. "I don't know how, but I'm not dead."

"Hospital records show that a Dr. Charles Lewis pronounced you dead from a gunshot wound to the chest at 2:33 pm. Your body was logged into the morgue at 2:53pm."

"I know, buddy, but I'm here. It's really me." He held out his right hand. "You wanna take a sample for your chemical analyzer?"

The little drawer slid open, and Michael licked his fingertip and smeared his saliva on the sensitive analyzer window. The drawer slid shut, and the machine inside hummed to itself for a moment. After it was done, a readout flashed on the twin screens set into the dashboard.

"Chemical analysis complete," said KITT. "Subject is male, and the sample contains traces of sugars and protein."

"That would be the pancakes and sausage I had for breakfast," Michael replied. "Come on, KITT. It's _me_."

The voxbox remained dark for a long moment. "...Michael?"

"That's me, partner."

"But...my sensors..."

"KITT, have they ever been wrong before?"

A shorter pause. "No."

Michael patted the steering yoke. "Well then, what's so hard about trusting them now?"

"...but humans coming back from the dead does not compute."

"Trust me," Michael sighed. "I'm having a hard time computing it myself." He glanced at the street ahead. "Listen, let's get out of here, go for a drive and sort things out. What do you say?"

Wordlessly, KITT put the car in gear and steered them out toward the road. They were on the freeway for a few miles before KITT turned them onto a seldom-used service road.

"Now," said KITT. "Start talking."

* * *

"...and that's all I remember," Michael finished a half hour later. "You believe me now?"

"Well, I know what my sensors tell me, and they seem to think that you are indeed the genuine article." KITT maneuvered gracefully around a curve. "I'm not getting any error responses from them, so they must be functioning properly. Ergo, you must be who they say you are."

Michael grinned. "I'm glad to see you too, buddy."

"What are you going to tell Mr. Miles?"

"I hadn't thought that far yet," Michael muttered. "The truth is just too wild." He glanced out the window unseeing at the desert landscape. "Did you come up with anything for Brun Kovalski?"

The monitors flashed a picture of the man in the alley. "He is thirty-three years old, lives in Garden Grove, and is employed as a furniture mover. However, a man with a similar appearance and slightly different spellings is listed several times in the Los Angeles Department of Motor Vehicles database over the last two decades."

Michael shook his head. "I don't get it. And that sword, what was with that?"

"The sword itself is a 430-year old antique, but it has not been reported stolen from any museum or collector."

"It's his sword, then," Michael mused. "He certainly swung it like it was part of his arm."

The AI was silent a moment. "Michael...why would anyone want to kill you?"

"That's what I want to find out, pal," said Michael as they turned onto the road that would lead them to the Manor. "KITT, give Devon a call and say that you'd like to see him out on the porch, okay? Just don't tell him I'm here...yet."

"Will do."

When Devon appeared on the porch, Michael slowly got out of the car. To his surprise, Devon didn't fall down of a coronary from shock. Instead, the Englishman stared steadily at Michael, his pale blue eyes taking in the sight of his young friend very solemnly.

"Michael, come inside," he said, holding out his hand. "We have much to talk about."

* * *

Michael glanced at the elegant dark-blue 'v' tattooed on the inside of Devon's wrist. "I thought you told me you got that in the Army."

"I did," said Devon, rebuttoning his cuff. "I was approached by the Watchers during my time in the OSS, and over the years I have watched several Immortals."

The hair on the back of Michael's neck stood up again, but this time it wasn't from the presence of another Immortal. "And...were you watching me, before I got shot in Vegas?"

Devon nodded. "Yes. We often watch pre-Immortals as well. Your previous Watcher retired and handed you off to me. That was one of the reasons Wilton Knight chose you for this job, so we could keep an eye on you." He smiled. "Of course, if you hadn't died, you might have lived a long life and died of simple old age, never knowing of your Immortality." The smile turned sad. "I'm sorry, Michael."

"Sorry?" Michael spread his hands wide. "Sorry that I'm going to have a third chance at my life? Devon, it's a miracle!"

"You may come to view it as more of a curse than a miracle," Devon said grimly. "You are now a player of The Game, a twisted contest that only one of your kind will survive." He turned away from Michael to pull aside the tapestry, and unlocked the wall safe beyond. "Now you must fight to stay alive. You must train yourself well, and learn to live by moving on every twenty years or so, constantly reinventing yourself time and again." He reached into the safe and pulled out a sword with a gleaming, two-and-a-half-foot blade. "Wilton wanted you to have this, in case the unthinkable happened."

Michael reverently took the sword into his hands. "Devon, I don't understand. You mean, I have to...to kill other Immortals? Guys like me?"

"There are female Immortals as well," Devon replied. "They will be after you, as you are after them. You can all be temporarily killed--as you were today--but the only true way to take the life of another Immortal is decapitation." He closed the safe and let the tapestry fall in front of it once more. "After you kill an Immortal, you will be subjected to the Quickening, a violent discharge of energy in which all of the experience of the one you have conquered becomes part of you." He grimaced. "It is not a pleasant experience."

Michael sat down on the sofa and rested the sword across his jean-clad knees. "What if I say no, that I won't fight them?"

"I'm afraid you have little choice." Devon sat down beside him. "Your only refuge is holy ground--a church, a cemetery, monastery, the like. Some choose to hide there, but most choose to play the Game." He smiled briefly. "Many Immortals have lived for centuries, Michael. It's not a death sentence."

"But..." Michael raised a troubled aquamarine gaze to his. "I don't know the first thing about fighting with one of these things." He gestured to the broadsword. "I'm gonna be a sitting duck if Kovalski--or anyone else for that matter--decides to come after me."

"That is why you need a teacher," said Devon, rising to move to his desk. "I happen to know the Watcher of a very good teacher: Alex Peters." He picked up the phone and began to dial. "Alex is five hundred years old and was trained on the steppes of Russia. He lives in the Valley and works as an exercise trainer."

"Great," Michal snorted. "I'm sure we'll get along _just_ fine."


	3. Teachers and Students

AN: Knight Rider and all related characters are property of Glen Larson and Universal; I'm just borrowing them. Highlander and all related characters are property of Rysher/Davis-Panzer, I'm just borrowing them, too.

* * *

_Teachers open the door. You enter by yourself._

_--Chinese proverb_

KITT's scanner flicked worriedly. "But Bonnie, why do you have to leave?"

"Because, KITT," she explained, continuing to methodically put away her tools, "I can't stay here. It's just.." She trailed off and laid the wrench in her hand down on the worktable. "It's just too empty." She buried her face in her hands and shook with silent sobs.

KITT edged closer until the end of his prow tapped the back of her knees. "I'm sorry, Bonnie," he said quietly. "I miss him, too."

"The big yoyo," Bonnie said with a bitter chuckle through her tears. "Damn you, Michael Knight, why did you have to be so damn _helpful_ all the time?"

KITT sat silent as tears pattered on his molecular bonded shell. Devon had warned him not to tell Bonnie the truth--just yet. KITT hadn't liked that a bit; after all, he could not lie--but as Devon explained, to stay silent was not the same as telling an outright lie. He recalled the time when Michael and Devon had kept a secret from both Bonnie and himself, in order to bring down a dangerous criminal. This would be the same, Devon reassured him, but it still made KITT's processors ache to watch Bonnie grieve.

"Why did you have to be so _good?"_ Bonnie sighed, unaware of KITT's quiet turmoil. "You always believed the best of people. Is that why you didn't run the other way when he pulled that gun on you?" She shook her head. "And now you're gone. I can't even yell at you and tell you how stupid you are."

"Bonnie," KITT broke in gently. "Please don't be so sad. I don't want my last memory of you to be a sad one."

She wiped her eyes. "I'm not going away forever, KITT," she said, patting his hood. "Just for a while. Just so it doesn't hurt so much when I do come back."

He rolled further into her touch. "And when will that be?"

Bonnie knelt before the prow and laid her head on her folded arms atop the hood. "I don't know, KITT. Six months, maybe, or a year? We'll have to wait and see."

"I suppose I'll have to live with that, then." KITT heaved an electronic sigh. "I'm going to miss you."

Bonnie pressed her lips briefly to the hood. "I know. I'm going to miss you, too--but I promise I'll be back."

* * *

"Thanks," said Michael to the taxi driver, who waved and sped away. With a sigh, Michael shouldered his gym bag and readjusted the long black-leather coat more comfortably on hs shoulders. He felt the crosspiece of the longsword brush against his waist, and marveled yet again how the sword fit perfectly into the special pocket that an Immortal posing as a tailor had added to the jacket.

Feeling exposed without the pressure of the comlink on his wrist, Michael turned toward the building where Devon's colleague had directed him. _Valley Family YMCA, _read the sign on the front of the building. The edifice looked like it had seen better days; cracks in the stucco had been patched along one wall, and the brickwork was broken in a few places. The iron bars on the front doors didn't look very welcoming, either, but as he stood there, a black man exited the building, trailed by twin girls in pink leotards and tutus. The man looked up and smiled at Michael.

"Hey, how's it going?" the man asked, holding the door open.

Michael discovered he remembered how to smile. "Fine, thanks." He caught the door and entered the building, stopping by a small window labeled 'Reception.' There was no one at the window, so he pressed the button on the bell provided for just such an occasion.

Almost immediately, a pretty Hispanic girl in jeans and a bright red YMCA t-shirt appeared around the corner. She grinned up at Michael. "Hiya," she said, popping a wad of bright pink gum. "What can I do for ya?"

Michael smiled back. "I'm Michael Knight, I'm here to see Alex Peters."

"Ummm..." The girl turned her head to consult a board hanging on the wall, setting her several pairs of graduated hoop earrings to dancing. "He's just finishing up his aerobics class in the main gym." She hiked herself up on the counter and pointed down the hallway. "Through there, and then you take a left. Double doors. Can't miss it."

"Thank you, Miss--"

"Leti," said the girl, turning the 't' into 'th'. "Short for 'Leticia.'"

"I like 'Leti' better," he said, parroting her pronunciation. "See you around."

She gave him a jaunty little wave and slid off the counter. "'Bye."

Turning in the direction Leti had indicated, Michael couldn't help a soft chuckle. At least girls still treated him the same, which so far had been just about the only thing that hadn't changed since he'd woken up in the morgue.

* * *

Michael pushed open the double doors and stepped into the cavernous gym. Along with the crackle along his spine that signaled the presence of another Immortal, a wall of moist air tinged with the odor of sweaty socks drifted past him. A group of men and women of all sizes, ages, and races were gathered in the middle of the room, wiping themselves down with towels and picking up the mats and gym bags that littered the well-worn hardwood floor.

A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair locked eyes with Michael, dark chocolate brown to aquamarine._ That's right_, Michael thought. _He can tell, just like I can_. Then the moment of acknowledgement was gone, and Peters' attention turned back to the two blonde women he was talking to.

Michael edged closer to Peters and the girls. Dressed in a black tank top, bicycle shorts, and blinding white sneakers, Peters was standing easily, his hands gripping either end of the towel slung around the back of his neck. Michael wasn't sure why the man was holding a towel; it didn't look like he had a bead of sweat on him.

The girls laughed at a remark Peters made, but it wasn't the giggly laugh of an adoring fanclub. The three exchanged a friendly 'see you Thursday,' then the girls turned to leave as well.

As they walked past, both girls' eyes flicked appreciatively from the soles of Michael's boots to the top of his curly head, and he gave a friendly nod. "Hi, ladies."

"Hi yourself," one of them volleyed back, but they didn't stop.

He stood and watched them go with an appreciative glance of his own, but turned at the sound of a male voice.

"Michael Knight." Peters' tone was polite, but Michael noticed that he kept his distance.

"That's me." Michael let his police training take over for a moment, and kept his hands where Peters could see them. "You wanna see some ID or something?"

Peters laughed. "No, that's all right. If you weren't Michael Knight, you'd have challenged me by now." He clasped Michael's hand in a strong grip. "Alex Peters. Glad to meet you."

"Likewise." Michael grinned. "I have to say that you're not what I expected."

Peters bent down to collect a pair of 5-lb dumbbells. "Oh really? And what did you expect?"

Michael shrugged, his jacket creaking. "I dunno. The guy from _Rocky IV_, I guess."

Peters burst out laughing. "No, that's not me." His smile turned softer as his eyes went unfocused with memory. "No, that hasn't been me for a long time."

"All joking aside," Michael said, sobering, "Devon Miles said you could help me." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his duster. "I'm new at all of this, so I sure hope he's right."

Peters nodded. "I'll do what I can, but the rest is up to you." He gestured with the dumbbells. "Come on, let's put these away. The Y closes at nine, but I've got my keys. We'll be staying a little longer."

"So," said Michael as they moved down the hallway toward the free-weight room, "you're really from Russia?"

"Born and raised," said Peters. "I was ten when our village was raided by Turkish soldiers, and I was trained in the court of an Iranian shah. I eventually escaped and returned to my homeland of _Sakartvelo_--Georgia, as it's known in the West."

"Where is that in Russia?" Michael asked, setting his bag on a bench.

"It's in Caucasus, between the Black and Caspian Seas. It's a very small part of Russia, really, but it's distinct." He set the dumbbell back in place with a clank and turned to Michael with a smile. "Sort of like how the American state of Georgia is distinct from New York; they're in the same country, but each has its own language, customs, and traditions."

Michael nodded. "You miss it?"

"Sometimes," Peters conceded, gathering up a pile of neatly folded towels and stowing them in a locker. "It's very different now. I haven't been back since the war."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"

"The Great War." Peters shut the locker. "I guess you could say it's been a while."

"Can I ask what...you know, what happened to you..." Michael shrugged again and got up from his seat. "I'm not sure what passes for etiquette among Immortals," he explained. "Asking someone how they died seems awful personal."

Peters led them out of the weight room and shut off the lights. "Normally you don't get that much conversation with other Immortals, but sometimes you do. Most are just like regular folks; if they want to tell you, fine. If they don't, then just leave it be."

"Most of the time I'll be fighting to keep my head, you mean." Michael blew out a sigh as they walked among well-used exercise machines. "I still don't get this whole 'chopping off heads' thing."

"It's part of the Game, Michael. That's all anyone knows." Peters turned to fix Michael with a gentle smile. "We've got a long haul ahead of us. Ask every question you can think of; the answers might save your life."

Michael snorted. "Yeah, that's _real_ reassuring."

Peters laughed. "Come on, Michael. One of the most important things to learn in this whole business is to try and look at things from a positive perspective. If you don't, things can get pretty grim out here."

Suddenly, Michael felt hot anger rise inside of him just as his blood had after the gunshot wound. "Alex, I'm going to stay this way forever while my friends get old and die! I'm always going to be looking over my shoulder for somebody with a sword! I have to learn to fight like something out of a _Medieval Times_ dinner show, and for what? The lovely prize of getting electrocuted!" He turned away, letting his hands fall to his sides with a sharp rap of skin against leather. "Tell me, where's the positive perspective of any of that?"

After several heartbeats of silence in the cavernous space, Peters' voice chimed in the stillness. "You'll be _alive_, Michael."

"Yeah, and who knows how long that's for."

Alex's shoes tapped lightly against the mats. "Michael, let me see your sword."

"Sure." Michael grasped the hilt and drew it out of his coat. He began to turn to hand it to Peters--and was stopped by the point of a long, curved blade that flashed in the low light.

"This sword is known by many names, but it's commonly known as a _shamshir_, or _scimitar_," purred Alex. "I have used this one for over three hundred years." He nodded to the blade in Michael's hands. "Yours is a type of broadsword called a 'longsword,' and has a hand-and-a-half grip--meaning that you hold it with one hand and steady it with the fingers of the other." He hooked the longsword with the curve of the shamshir and sent it spinning away into the corner of the room. "Now pick it up and follow me."

Michael waited until Alex had moved out of the doorway to slowly walk over and retrieve his sword. As he picked it up, part of his mind taunted him with the thought of leaving and never looking back. He could just go home, go back to KITT, to things that made sense, and just live quietly. No one would have to know he was an Immortal, at least for another thirty years or so...

The other part of his brain supplied him with the image of his head rolling in the dirt, while some faceless monster stood over his headless body as a lightening storm raged above.

He didn't like either picture: One with his head down and his tail tucked up for all eternity; the other, well..._dead_. For good.

With a sigh, he gripped his sword tightly and headed in the direction Alex had gone.

...to be continued...


End file.
